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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26694112">The Liberated Librarian’s Guide To Iacon City</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse'>bmouse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Transformers: Prime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Archivist!Megatron, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Orion Pax was smol but also a BAMF and no one will tell me otherwise, Pre-War AU, is incoming, oh my god they were roommates</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:48:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,711</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26694112</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alpha Trion's machinations entangle the august institution of the Iaconian Archive with the Affirmative Action Worker Rehabilitation program. And while Orion Pax is cautiously happy to finally have a direct report, what is he going to do with a former miner three times his size? And where is their new Archivist going to live?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Megatron/Optimus Prime, Megatron/Orion Pax</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Liberated Librarian’s Guide To Iacon City</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>things in general: keep being awful. <br/>my brain: damn I'm sad. If only I had a cute domestic Pre-War AU where Megatron never gets sent to the Pits and ends up at the Archive with Orion.<br/>also my brain: okay, that much I can do.</p>
<p>Also FYI I've never read "Exodus" or any of the TFP tie-in novels. Do not speak to me of canon, I'm just here to make shit up.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh Orion, would you stop by my office after-shift please? I have an extra task for you.”  </p>
<p>Alpha Trion was uncommonly lucid that morning, sweeping past the rows of Archivist stations to Reception with an improbable gravitas for a mech who regularly let cubes slip out of his arthritic servos in private. </p>
<p>“Of course, sir.” </p>
<p>Orion nodded deferentially, as one must. He was also vaguely grateful how the snide towerling femme he had been dealing with blanched, curtseyed and made herself suddenly several degrees more agreeable in the presence of the Master Archivist himself.</p>
<p>Who promptly commed his protege a private message.</p>
<p>
  <em>//I shall not keep you in suspense: our request to the Worker Rehabilitation program was approved. There, that should buttress you through second-shift.//</em>
</p>
<p>Alpha Trion did a nanoklik’s duty looming over the customer, data-cables shifting ominously under his heavy robes and then, having circled the large hexagonal reception desk, (and, Primus bless him, using one of those cables to sleight-of-hand a packet of energon candies into the cubby by Orion’s hip) he rolled away. </p>
<p>Or at least he attempted to. Instead, predictably, as he had not shown himself in the lower floors for a breem he was mobbed by the braver set of Senior Archivists crowding around him for obscure reference numbers or general wisdom.</p>
<p>Still, Orion recognized the ritual for what it was. All in front of him the crowds of casual browsers and more intent customers gaped, his mentor having accomplished his unsubtle reminder that while he might be ancient, he was far from non-functional. </p>
<p>Alas, Archivist Pax was left at his post in Reception much as a weary combatant on a siege wall. Though at least one who had been delivered the equivalent of additional armor, a bracing shot of engex and a warm meal. </p>
<p>The High Council was, so far, responding to rumors of a populist groundswell in Kaon, Tarn and other disreputable polities with a lip service 'Diversity Initiative’ and so Orion, with his uncommon convoy frametype was press-ganged into doing reception duty every five solar cycles to show that the Keepers of Knowledge weren’t all lithe little towerlings.</p>
<p>This was a task that he, being a mech of good manners and what Ratchet had once called ‘downright <em>masochistic</em> patience’ excelled at, but rarely enjoyed. </p>
<p>Sometimes matters became strained simply because the customers were awkward, and he was, perhaps by a certain standard, <em>also</em> awkward and then he and the customer simply locked optics in mute beseechment as they both drowned in a sea of awkwardness because even Orion’s formidable processor could not narrow down ‘It was one of those generational-line novels about… like, backstabbing? Political stuff? The cover had a Seeker on it’ into a specific volume. </p>
<p>If Primus smiled at him, sometimes the customer would remember exactly weather their sought-after erotic short story collection contained Tarnish or Kaonite gladiators and Orion could actually help them. More than once, faced with Archivist Pax’s placid faceplate and gentle smile, somebot had simply blushed and fled.</p>
<p>And sometimes there was only the dull, eminently predictable upper-caste prejudice. </p>
<p>It was getting to the point where if he had to hear 'Why, you’re so very well-spoken for a truckformer!' one more time there would be divine retribution.</p>
<p>Last reception shift, nerve-wrackingly enough, a gaggle of Senators had come through, fresh out of a committee meeting. One of them, sporting truly <em>tacky</em> silver scrollwork, had leered brazenly and ordered Orion to deliver his shipment to his Tower since ‘with those fat, bouncy tires you must be good at driving uphill' to which the usually sedate and personable Senator Shockwave had snapped 'For Primus’ sake, Trebuchet you're being <em>highly</em> <em>illogical</em>. That's not his function here at all!' and dragged his junior compatriot away by the elbow like he wanted to take him back to his famous lab and disassemble him for scrap. </p>
<p>Orion made a mental note to vote for him. Again.</p>
<p>He had spoken to that particular Senator once or twice as he was forever tinkering with his inventions and wanted a variety of reference volumes on material engineering and historical architecture and once, in a memorable overlap with Orion’s own interests: old crystal-etched mosaic scans depicting Solus Prime at work. Though he was stereotyped as an ‘absentminded professor’ sort of mech and not terribly exciting as a politician, nevertheless Senator Shockwave was one of the official sponsors of the Worker Rehabilitation program.</p>
<p>And the program’s rather generic name hid something surprisingly subversive: </p>
<p>Once identified by the fairly slow-moving “Sentinel Prime Memorial Justice Review Committee”, mecha who had suffered uncommonly long or disproportionately cruel sentences, whose cases had been determined more than a 500 vorn ago under the older Pre-Sentinel code of laws were placed in a sort of lottery and given a chance at fair-wage employment in major metropolitan cities.</p>
<p>It all felt rather like Orion's receptionist duty: ornamental and insufficient but if there was a time to be pragmatic, it was now. Social progress seemed stalled but the Iaconian institutions that signed up for the program were honor-bound to create new jobs and therefore a non-zero number of sparks could be saved from the slums, fighting pits, or, Primus forbid, predatory factory contracts. </p>
<p>Once he climbed the latticelike ramps to his mentor’s office he had one last hurdle to jump through to satisfy the curiosity burning in his spark: he had to make tea for his social superior before speaking, as per upper-caste tradition. Orion was old enough to understand why his mentor sometimes insisted on tedious formality. Old Trion was certainly grooming him for something. Perhaps something even as improbable as a former dock worker someday becoming Head Archivist, at which point he would have to pay court at high-caste gatherings, and not through the catering entrance.</p>
<p>Privately Orion would have said he was being too optimistic. It had been decavorns but new arrivals to the Archive staff still, without fail, goggled at him for lunar cycles at a time until he wore them down with competence and unwavering politeness. But who knew where the nebulous tides of social upheaval would leave them all?</p>
<p>Sometimes it seemed like his mentor, tangible cognitive decline and all, had an optic into the future and was intent on manipulating it to some grand end that only he knew.</p>
<p>Sometimes Orion even entertained the notion that Alpha Trion was secretly The Voice of the Deep who wrote the revolutionary speeches read at the Decepticon rallies or, at the very least, one of the wealthy benefactors that kept the Champion’s contract from being bought out by the Kaon elite… Ah but he knew too much about their budget to entertain the fantasy. Anyway Soundwave had legions of adoring fans in all castes and hardly needed their help.</p>
<p>"Allright. Now that I’ve played Social-Climber’s Finishing School to your satisfaction, who did we get?" Orion said cheekily as he set down the perfectly arranged tea tray.</p>
<p>Alpha Trion chuffed out a laugh and, reaching out with two data-cables instead of his rather less reliable servos, promptly dumped four lithium cubes into his saucer and slurped it down in one go. </p>
<p>Conveniently, when you were an ancient noblemech table manners didn’t apply to you.</p>
<p>"He is an industrial drilling rig, who had been sentenced to solitary work shifts for longer than your tenure here. Possibly for longer than you’ve been online. Apparently before they walled him off some batchmates had given him a data pad containing classic literature. The personal essay on his application was… very compelling.” </p>
<p>Orion’s digits curled in sympathy. Once or twice he had joked about becoming a feral mech and taking a hermitage to catch up on his reading but solitary confinement was barbaric.</p>
<p>“That’s… that’s horrible. What’s his name?”</p>
<p>"I see in their pettiness the mine supervisors supplied us only with his serial number. So you will have to ask him! He arrives tonight in the middle of third shift at the loading dock”</p>
<p>Orion’s processor spun. So soon! And a miner! Well, the deep stacks of the Archive sub basement did sometimes seem appropriately cavernous...</p>
<p>"Do you know why he was sentenced?"</p>
<p>“The records only say 'uncivil disobedience,' which covers all manner of ills. With their shoddy record keeping, and the span of time elapsed, it is also possible that no one knows the original infraction." </p>
<p>Orion frowned. </p>
<p>“Still, miners are formatted for close quarters, and if he's been underground for so long, well.. Iacon has wide lanes and a lot of open sky. He could develop an environment adjustment disorder! And while the Archive grants new employees medic appointment vouchers... ah but most of the medics in the city center wouldn’t know what to do with a labor-class frame. Actually I’m sure Ratchet will agree to a free screening! He still has that clinic in Kaon you know, even now-”</p>
<p>At this point Orion realized he was just babbling without a filter(one of the tires on his shin had started spinning unconsciously, a sure sign of over-processing) and drew himself short. But Alpha Trion was nodding along approvingly. </p>
<p>“Yes, those are the things which no one accounted for. And given that this program is meant to be a smokescreen for the Council’s intentions to keep things exactly as they are, I am hardly surprised.</p>
<p>But <em>you</em> have begun to think of them immediately! That is the mark of a good leader, always considering the various contingencies.</p>
<p>Which is why I have decided to place our new Junior Archivist under your direct supervision.”
</p>
<p>Orion nodded instinctively. Whoever this poor miner was, he already felt an odd sense of protectiveness towards them. And a dawning dread of how cruel it would be to rescue someone from an underground prison just to drop them into the searing currents of mid-caste social intrigue. </p>
<p>“I’d be honored. But don’t you think that would be too convenient for them? Having the odd-and-ends together?” </p>
<p>“That is precisely why. You have cultivated a perfect reputation, which can shield our new friend during his adjustment period.”</p>
<p>Orion sighed. He could see where this was going without engaging his zooming optical mod. </p>
<p>“You mean I have a reputation for being perfectly harmless. And because they won’t promote me to Senior Archivist without a direct report. Which I have been without because high-caste mecha don’t want to be ordered around by someone who won’t denounce or change his ‘common’ alt-mode.” He turned up toward his mentor. “It would seem this is all part of your plot.”
</p>
<p>Alpha Trion smiled into his braided cable beard and didn’t deny it. </p>
<p>“You are still young. You must learn to take the long view. If we can get your generation of Iaconians used to intelligent discourse from other frame types...”</p>
<p>Orion picked up his teacup, letting the warmth spread through his servos. He would always be ‘young mech’ to his mentor but in reality he was heading into early middle age. And on the topic of justice he felt as impatient as a sparkling. Lately the pace of progress was so glacial it made the most sedate, introverted sort of spark want to overflow its crystal casing and jump out of its frame to blaze and riot in the streets. </p>
<p>"Still, a Kaonite miner... As glad as I am to no longer be the most rugged model on the floor, we may have a fight on our hands." </p>
<p>Alpha Trion wrapped another handful of energon sweets in the ancient bronzed tendrils of his data cable. The filaments wavered for a nano, undone by one of his habitual power surges, but then rallied, crushing the sweets into a singular mass.</p>
<p>"As expected. Let's win it." </p>
<p>----------</p>
<p>The transport arrived more towards the end of third shift, much later than promised, slightly to Orion’s annoyance. He had been pacing, then attempting to read, then attempting to organize the new position’s schedule, looking critically at the spare workstations they had to see which one was the largest and how it could be extended upward. </p>
<p>The delay had also left ample time for low-grade worrying to kick up a gear into high-grade worrying since he’d never been <em>anyone’s</em> supervisor let alone someone from such a different cultural background. Alpha Trion’s flattering words about ‘leadership’ were all very well but his only experience was ‘leading’ Ariel, Ratchet, and Jazz home from the oilhouse district after a bender. (Sometimes by piling them one by one into his trailer.) </p>
<p>Not exactly the stuff of legend. </p>
<p>Then he took an ex-vent, ruthlessly pruned those processor threads, and stood up a little straighter. He would do his best to be kind and reassuring, hopefully the rest could follow.</p>
<p>Outside, a rig pulled up to the alley behind the Archive’s loading doors. Still this was an alley in Iacon’s City-Center and so it was well-lit and meticulously scrubbed by cleaning drones to such an extent that the transport and his driver stood out like a spot of rust.</p>
<p>The hauler was a big mech, (he had to be, because the battered trailer behind him was <em>enormous</em>) with an indifferently-maintained drab olive paint job. His single smokestack belched puffs of sulphur in a way that suggested poor dietary choices, but as he rolled to a stop his powerful engine nevertheless let out a series of showy growls that shook the street before downshifting into a petulant idle.</p>
<p>Orion, being a convoy-hauler himself and therefore distant frame-kin to this rough-and-ready road warrior, ruthlessly squashed down a pang of envy. If Primus had wanted him bigger, he would have built him that way. </p>
<p>Anyway the grand entrance was somewhat ruined by a minibot kicking open the door of the other mech’s cab and hopping down, throwing the still-smoking butt of his cy-gar down in front of his companion’s wheels.</p>
<p>Orion frowned. </p>
<p>"Excuse me, are you Motormaster and... Swindle, was it? " </p>
<p>The minibot shuffled closer. In better light he looked like the sort of mech who sold ‘triple plated chrome hubcaps!’ that later turned out to be treated zinc.</p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah Swindle’s the name. And you’re... Orion Pax.” He made the period glyph into a question. “Are you sure? Two-part designation mechs is mostly nobs ain’t they? You clean up good lil’ convoy, but I bet you and the lug over there are second cousins.”</p>
<p>“Oi, what’s the holdup!" The aforementioned Motormaster grumbled bad-naturedly behind his colleague. “Less bitchin’ and more unhitchin’! I wanna get back before the bars close.”</p>
<p>Frostily, Orion pulled his embossed-crystal City Center id card and activated the hologram displaying the glyphs of his designation, a minute holo-turnaround of his frame, and his personal notary seal with his namesake constellation.</p>
<p>Swindle eyed it with outward nonchalance, but his field read ‘reluctantly impressed.’</p>
<p>“Well shoot, so you are.” Optics narrowing thoughtfully he motioned Orion closer,  “Follow me.”</p>
<p>With some reluctance Orion followed him to the back, where Motormaster’s inbuilt tow hitch had been hastily jury rigged to an antique industrial transport pod, double checking both the physical latches and the encryption on his subspace. Jazz had shown him some of the latest pickpocket tricks and he had no mind to lose a stack of credit chips, or worse, a favorite data pad to this dubious deliverymech. </p>
<p>"OK you know what, kid-” (Orion vented internally. Just because he was short and had a round faceplate...) “-I decided I like you! Low-caste hauler like yourself and you zoomed your aft all the way up here?! Ol’ Swindle loves a social climber.” </p>
<p>(Ol’ Swindle, having failed to intimidate, was clearly in search of a new angle.) </p>
<p>“Dig the paint job too! A little bright but, eh whatever. I guess that’s fashion ‘round here~ Hey, tell me the hex code and maybe I could move some! Yannow, sell a little Iaconian glamour~  But it’s too bad how your smartaft boss pissed off whoever's been handing out the 'ex-cons.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you don’t say?” Orion asked politely. He had the sense that Swindle would keep on talking regardless.</p>
<p>“You watch yourself around this guy. This fragger's a legend! To the undercity groundpounders he's a bogeyman! A ghost! Third-cousin to a sparkeater! Didja know when the ol Kaon mine next to the Pits dried up, they just <em>left</em> him down there? Not a spark to talk to, but the Insecticons. Nothin’ ta eat but unrefined slag… And Insecticons! Anyway Motormaster thinks he’s a real tough guy cause he went 13-4 in the local Pit this season before Bruticus knocked his block off, but this whole haul he’s been lookin’ over his shoulder, spooked as slag. ‘Cause rumor has it even Bruticus never had th’ bearings to tangle with <em>him</em>. Rumor is that #16 here killed his overseer, just tore his chest open over some kinda work beef like it was alufoil. If they'd sent this old slagger to the Pits like they were plannin on, well the Champ might have had some <em>real</em> competition in the finals. Capiche, <em>Archivist Pax? </em>Watch yer pretty lil’ windshield."</p>
<p>Orion kept his faceplate blank. Rare Kaonite slang glyphs aside,(he would have to add them to the linguistic catalogue - frankly the only enjoyable outcome of this interaction) the whole story was <em>preposterous</em>.</p>
<p>"I do hope whoever paid you to frighten me gave you the credits in advance. You are <em>wasted</em> as a courier Mr. Swindle, you should be onstage."</p>
<p>Swindle’s mirrored visor gleamed nastily as he grunted, finally loosening the grimy trailer bolt.</p>
<p>"Nervy thing, aintcha? Well allright Pax, don't say I didn't warn ya!" </p>
<p>Once freed from the trailer, Motormaster turned into root mode. He would have been a handsome mech if it wasn’t for the sizable dent in his cheek, the oilcake crumbs around his intake, and his sour expression. Personal hygiene was also clearly not a priority.</p>
<p>Predictably, Orion came up to his hip. </p>
<p><em>Really? </em>Orion thought, tilting his chin up a fraction. <em>Aren’t you too old for these youngling games? I certainly am. </em></p>
<p>The larger convoy stared down at him, but could not quite manage to stare him down. </p>
<p>After a weighty nano Motormaster curled his lipplates in a sneer, transformed back and began pointedly rolling away without his parking brakes. </p>
<p>"The bay is over there." Orion said, the words ringing out across the alleyway. He was, as said, a small mech. But his voice carried.</p>
<p>Motormaster snorted. Swindle, with a sly little parting smirk, ran up to catch him, clambering up to perch on his rear lights.</p>
<p>"Hey, they told me Iacon. Haul’s in Iacon. The rest ain’t my problem~”</p>
<p>Right. Well Alpha Trion had said this would be a fight. Why not now. Why not from the very start.</p>
<p>Orion certainly had plenty of frustration to work out. </p>
<p>And to think he’d been all set to offer the delivery mechs some leftover carbonite donuts from the break room. Alas. No prizes for grifters and bullies.</p>
<p>"You know, at Loading Bay 5 where I used to work before this, we had a rather different standard for a finished delivery.” He said pointedly to the air at large, walking up to the trailer, his pedefalls echoing. </p>
<p>Reaching up behind his neck cabling he found the hook for the winch which sat between the wheels of his upper back and clicked it into place over the tow hitch. It made for quite the mismatched sight. No matter, it would only have to hold for a short time.</p>
<p>A little ways away Motormaster rolled to a stop to watch, his dull lazy EM field sparking with reluctant interest. The die had been cast. This was the closest thing typically low-caste truckformers had to a noblemech’s duel.</p>
<p>Orion folded into alt-mode. It would certainly be just the thing to rev up and pull the haul away as if it was nothing. But the trick with big things was always to start slowly.</p>
<p>He steeled himself, felt the pavement under his wheels, dug in. </p>
<p>The trailer was heavier than he could have imagined. </p>
<p>What in the absolute <em>slag</em> was in there? Rocks? A whole mining cadre? Unicron himself? The transport pod alone must have been 20 tonnes, let alone what was inside of it.</p>
<p>And he hadn’t hauled past his freight limit in decavorns.</p>
<p><em>Ah</em>, Orion thought. <em>I may be, despite my best efforts towards sensibleness, a hopeless optimist. </em></p>
<p><em>Also, in hindsight, a bit of a fool. </em>
</p>
<p>Nevertheless, his engine roared, heading towards the redline, biolights flaring up alongside his determination to light his undercarriage and then slowly, ever so slowly, the wheels of the trailer began to move. That was it though, any haul no matter how tricky - once you got it moving, you’d won. </p>
<p>Steadily Orion Pax towed his destiny inward, toward the loading bay. </p>
<p>"<em>Gentlemechs</em>, good orn." he sent out over general comms, blocked all answering frequencies and pinged the Archive bay doors to shutter down firmly behind him.</p>
<p>As it descended, he could just about make out the squeal of tires as Motormaster peeled away.</p>
<p>Ah, now that the rush had worn off something in his left ankle joint wasn’t quite agreeing with him. Yes, he was probably due for a trip to Ratchet’s for axle realignment after this little stunt. </p>
<p>Still, worth it.</p>
<p>He strained, downshifting gradually, rolling to a stop so as not to jostle the load. </p>
<p>Had his passenger even been awake for any of that? Probably not.</p>
<p>
  <em>If I had to share a six joor drive with just those two for company I’d set a timer and knock myself into forced recharge. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Anyway, I hope not. It would make such an odd first impression. I’m usually not like this at all...</em>
</p>
<p>Just as he thought that he felt a shiver run through his struts. He was seized by a peculiar sensation, like he was being drawn into something inevitably as a star into its orbit.</p>
<p>Behind him there was a rusty sound that began as gears grinding in some vast structure and then resolved into a wild and haggard laugh.</p>
<p>It was, Orion thought, unmistakably a villain’s laugh, the laugh of the triumphant glitchwyrm devouring the steadfast hero, and, unfortunately, he liked it immediately.</p>
<p>A vast EM field unfolded before him in the dark emptiness of the trailer and a great growling voice shook him to the tendrils of his spark.</p>
<p>It said, <em>“Well done.”</em></p>
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